


Sing You a New Song

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Friendship, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Leaving Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-09
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2018-10-27 11:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10807839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: A few years after Hogwarts, and a while after the war has ended, Draco looks back on the chance he never took with Harry.  And looks forward to a new opportunity.





	Sing You a New Song

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Another very early fic, this remains my only explicitly post-war story. Events and some language based on the lyrics of "Hold Me Now" by the Thompson Twins.  


* * *

Draco plucked the picture from the wall by his bed, where it had hung as long as he could remember. Looking at it gave him the same numb ache in his stomach it always did, and he sat down heavily. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d done just this: taken the frame in his hand, held it like a fragile, precious thing, willed it to be real.

 

It could have been another lifetime when Draco had been blinded by the flashbulb from that creepy Muggle-born Creevey’s creepy Muggle camera. He’d been caught in the crossfire of Potter’s stardom, that was all. It was pure accident that Draco’s face appeared in the photograph, taken really so few years ago.

 

It was no accident that Draco was in possession of the photograph today.

 

It didn’t matter how Creevey had learned how to develop Muggle film to make wizard-style moving snapshots. It didn’t matter how Draco had found out, or how he had managed to take possession of this print. What mattered was why.

 

As always when he looked at this photograph, Draco couldn't decide whether to smile or weep. The laughing faces in the photograph looked so happy, so _pure_. So innocent.

 

They hadn't ever even liked each other. Hadn't been laughing _together_ in that picture. Draco hadn’t even realised how close he had been standing to Potter, until the bright light had erupted in his face, and Creevey’s camera had captured both boys in the same frame, each laughing with his own friends at whatever joy they’d felt in those younger days.

 

They were still young, but the few years between had been long. They were still young, but none could now claim to be innocent.

 

Those years had taken Draco's parents, had taken the lives of several of his school friends. They'd left blood on the hands of those who were left. _All_ , as the Bard had written at the end of the most famous tragedy of all time, _are punishèd_. None more so than the one who'd had to save them all.

 

Draco ran a finger over the smiling face under the glass, caressing it gently as though he could brush back the eternally untidy black hair. Harry's brilliant green eyes blinked up at him, flickering with mistrust. The image offered a shy smile before turning back to its cohorts.

 

Draco would give anything to see that smile today, that offer of promise, on the face that boy had grown up to wear.

 

_Trust me now, Harry_ , he thought at the image, which of course could neither hear him nor respond. _Trust that I did everything I could_.

 

Draco's decision to break ranks with his family and to fight against the Death Eaters had been met by fear and suspicion from everyone. Only after he had shown Professor Snape the whip marks on his back had he won an ally, who had convinced Dumbledore, who had convinced Harry and the rest to give him a chance.

 

A chance, perhaps, but he had remained an outsider nonetheless. And he'd tried not to hate them for it. Had tried to see past the mutterings and the narrowed eyes. Had tried simply to do his job and to use his insider knowledge of his father's network to anticipate the Death Eaters' strategies so that the Aurors could do their jobs.

 

He had tried not to feel the break in his heart when, even after his information had lead to the final plot that would ultimately defeat the Dark Lord, Harry never did look at him. Never did ask him why he'd joined them, or whether he wanted to go with them into that cave from which so few had returned alive.

 

Draco moved the frame suddenly, just in time to take it out of the path of the first tear that dropped from his lashes. It would be followed by many more. Tears got him through the nights, and often the days. Sometimes they were the only thing convincing him that he had survived the whole mess.

 

He hadn't kept in touch with anyone who'd fought beside him, because no one had. Draco's job had been the lonely work of an informant, thriving on subterfuge and broken trust. And so he was left feeling as though he'd fought for nothing, for _this_ nothing of a life that he lived, surviving off his inheritance and the money he'd got for selling the Manor and rarely leaving his flat or even getting out of bed. He ate only when he could bring himself to swallow food. He didn't even bother to get drunk anymore.

 

Draco wished he could be something more, but he didn't know how to do it. He wished he could _have_ something more, and hated himself for his greed. He already had so much, he knew, surrounded by everything his vast wealth could buy. And yet he felt nothing but want.

 

But how could he _not_ want this particular something when still he woke up in the middle of every night, seeing those eyes in the darkness?

 

Draco sat up straight, blinking and wiping his eyes, setting the frame down on his bedside stand. He didn’t have time to wallow today.

 

He examined his face in the mirror, clearing the blotchy redness away with a single spell, lightening the bruised circles under his eyes with another. There was nothing to fill his gaunt cheeks, but it was still an improvement. The mirror murmured approvingly at his renewed appearance.

 

Today was his chance. He had to look good. If Harry didn’t appreciate the effort, then knowing he looked his best might at least serve to diminish the pain of rejection.

 

Draco checked the parchment on the dresser one more time. The information it held, of course, had not changed, and he didn't really need to review it. He'd already memorised their meeting place and time thrice over since Harry's response had arrived yesterday.

 

He read it again, just to handle an artifact that had so recently been held in the hands of the man who had saved the world. A soft heat grew in Draco’s chest at the thought of the awkward little prat who had disappointed him for so many years in their childish battles of inexpert name-calling and juvenile pranks; it grew warmer still at the thought of the wizard who had disappointed no one by so brilliantly fulfilling his chilling destiny.

 

_Dear Draco_ , it read in stiff, cordial prose, _I hope this letter finds you well. I apologise for the delay in my response. Ron and Hermione got married last weekend, and I was away at their celebration. It makes it better, living through all that we did, to be able to see their day arrive at last. You said you wanted to talk, and I suppose I owe you that. I will be in Hogsmeade tomorrow, at the Three Broomsticks. Is three in the afternoon convenient for you? I can meet you there. Sincerely, Harry._

 

Draco’s fingers ran over the childish script, marveling at his given name in his former adversary’s writing. They had never called each other by anything but their surnames, but Harry had long since become Harry in Draco’s mind, and Draco had signed his own name to the letter almost without thinking.

 

Which was a lie. Draco had agonised and _Scourgify_ 'd and written seven different versions of a signature. The final closing he’d chosen - _Yours, Draco_ \- had been a gift of trust to someone who had never fully trusted him in return.

 

And here, as if in a promise of hope, were the same familiar names on the page in his hand.

 

Maybe, just maybe, there was reason to be optimistic after all.

 

The minute hand of the clock on the dresser was nearing vertical. Draco took a deep breath, wished his reflection luck, and raised his wand.

 

***

 

Sunlight blanketed Hogsmeade village in summer heat. Draco shaded his eyes against the glare, trying not to see the ghosts of the children and parents he’d known hiding around corners and behind the reflective glass of shop windows. There were too many who had walked their last steps in these streets without knowing they would never return.

 

Draco hurried toward the Three Broomsticks. There was only one memory he wished to meet today.

 

Harry smiled when he walked in. Draco wanted to believe it was true, although he was too blinded by the brightness outside to see anything when he entered the shadowy doorway.

 

By the time his vision had adjusted well enough to see them, the green eyes were as wide as saucers. The expression told Draco that his charms to refresh his appearance must not have done enough. He wondered how haggard he might look to one who had last seen him at the healthy age of eighteen.

 

Harry was thinner, too.

 

Harry waved him over, unnecessarily. Where else could Draco have gone?

 

"I ordered you a Butterbeer."

 

Draco blinked. After the years and the wishing and the dreaming and the tears, was it really just as simple as a pair of Butterbeers and two seats at a table?

 

"Thanks."

 

Harry stared at him. He felt the eyes on him, inside and through. Draco dropped his gaze to the calloused fingers that wrapped around a mug of their own. The fingers that had held the wand that had saved the world. The fingers that haunted his sleep.

 

"Draco?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Are you going to sit?"

 

Draco blinked again, wondering what had happened to the snarky, privileged twerp who always said and did whatever he pleased. The wizard who inhabited his body now rarely seemed to know how to manage it.

 

He pulled out the empty chair and sat down. And right about then, realised that Harry had called him 'Draco.'

 

Draco smiled, and Harry smiled back, relaxed and comfortable as if they were old friends. So maybe it was just this easy.

 

"Harry." Draco tasted the name on his tongue, as sweet as he had ever heard it.

 

"Mmm?"

 

Draco started at the response, not having meant to speak audibly. He had only wanted to feel the name on his lips. Harry was looking at him as if he’d addressed him, as if Draco had planned to say something. After so many lonely nights with that face inside his eyelids, what could Draco say?

 

And suddenly it wasn’t easy anymore. Draco looked at everything he’d wanted and couldn’t remember exactly when disdain had turned into desire, and wondered why he’d ever thought this was a good idea.

 

Draco dropped his eyes to his own pallid fingers on the handle of his mug. Maybe he should leave before he made it any worse. Except that he couldn't imagine a place in the world he'd rather be.

 

Harry shifted in his chair, a wry smile on his lips.

 

“This is harder than it was supposed to be, isn’t it?” he asked.

 

Draco's eyes snapped up. _Harder than it was supposed to be_. That's exactly what this was. And he wanted to tell Harry so. And he wanted to believe what it meant that Harry had said it. But all he could do was to reach his fingers across the table toward the other hands that waited there.

 

Halfway across, and no more, because that was as far as his courage could carry him today.

 

Harry closed the distance. He moved as though there had never been a question, and maybe there never was. Draco felt the rough dryness of those famous hands covering his own and felt the tears want to begin again, only this time they were for relief and gratitude and disbelief and joy. He blinked them back, afraid to show so much emotion, even now. His heart felt ready to burst in his chest.

 

"Maybe it doesn't have to be so hard, after all," offered Harry, and Draco knew something had shifted just the right way between the dust mites in the still afternoon air.

 

"It doesn't. I mean, it really _doesn't_. Isn't."

 

Draco’s tongue felt too thick for his mouth. His lungs weren’t quite absorbing enough oxygen from the dusty heat. He remembered the way he used to swagger in Harry’s presence, and wondered again just when he had lost contact with the Draco who used to live inside his skin.

 

Harry swallowed, looking apprehensive. Only the eyes were steady, boring through Draco into places he'd forgotten he had.

 

“Is this what you wanted to say?” asked Harry, looking significantly down at their joined hands and then back up at his companion, moving his fingers fractionally, but just enough for Draco to feel the contact anew.

 

Draco stared back in disbelief. Harry had to know full well that it _was_.

 

How else could Draco have told him? Should he have described the reasons he'd listed for turning against his family, count them all out to prove that every motivation distilled down to the day he woke from that first dream with the memory of dark hair feathering against his lips? Should he have declared his devotion in so many words, as though the words of a turncoat and a Slytherin would ever be trusted by the hero and his Gryffindor friends?

 

Draco raised his ice-grey eyes to Harry's. The green eyes were glistening in the way that Draco suspected was the closest the hero ever came to shedding tears. Was it for the sorrow the famous saviour had seen, for worry that he’d misread Draco’s intentions, or for the years of joy they'd lost for fear of exposing their hearts to one another? All Draco knew was that he never wanted to see pain well up in those eyes again.

 

What could he do? Only try something new that he'd never dared before, hoping to win forgiveness for untold sins by stopping the pain forever.

 

Draco pushed himself forward out of his chair, falling to his knees and gathering Harry in his arms and kissing his lips again and again. There were hands in his hair and the sweetest mouth all over him and strong, strong arms pulling him closer. Noses bumped and teeth clicked together and tongues wrestled for dominance as fingers intertwined and chests met and sandpapered jaws rubbed against each other. Tears spilled and dried and smiles broke through the clouds to light up the corner where the two former enemies found common ground at last.

 

Harry pulled back, laughing. "Draco?"

 

"Mmm?" Heavy half-lidded eyes dragged themselves open. Draco smiled to watch the beauty that the spark of happiness had rekindled in the green of Harry’s eyes.

 

"Do you think we're going to need this?"

 

A clink of metal on the table, catching Draco’s attention, making a silent suggestion. It was the best, most welcome idea that had entered his life in a long time.

 

Beneath Harry's fingers lay a key to one of the rooms upstairs.

 

Draco laughed and nodded and kissed him yet another time. And whether they ever made it there was unimportant. It was the asking that mattered.


End file.
